by Caiseal Mor
“He’s driving like a fool,” the Druid answered solemnly. “Tuargain, you shouldn’t have allowed him to take it out before it was properly tested. If he should fall and break his neck there’ll be trouble to pay.”
“He won’t falter, Máel Máedóc,” the blacksmith cut in. “Eber Finn is the greatest warrior alive. It would take more than a fall from a chariot to change his fortunes.”
“A small wedge cut from the oak tree can be used to split it,” the Druid answered. “In just such a manner a man can be the cause of his own ruination.”
Even as the old counselor spoke, both sighted men saw the vehicle kick up the dirt. Together they gasped as the chariot jumped into the air only to land again with the king still firmly standing in his place at the reins.
“What’s happened?” Tuargain asked urgently. “Has there been some mishap?”
“All’s well,” Máel Máedóc reassured him. “But I fear young Eber is taking far too many risks.”
At that the Druid bit his tongue. He knew that most of the southern Gaedhals thought very highly of their war-leader. Eber had led them at the Battle of Sliabh Mis and successfully negotiated an extremely favorable treaty with the mystical Danaans, the native inhabitants of this island. The Danaans had agreed to withdraw behind the veil of the Otherworld, leaving all their lands to the Gaedhals. Only a few of their kind had remained living in scattered pockets among the Fir-Bolg of the Burren.
But even if he had not been victorious, Eber Finn would have been well respected. He was the youngest son of King Míl and Queen Scota who had ruled their people in the lands of Iber before the tribes had elected to make a journey northward in search of new territory.
Máel Máedóc did not wish anyone to know he had reservations about the young war-leader. Nevertheless he could not hide a frown, and his expression was full of concern. Before long the Druid realized that Méaraigh was glancing at him suspiciously, so he pulled the cowl of his breacan cloak over his face and hugged his hazelwood staff close to his body.
“It’s a fine chariot,” the blacksmith told Tuargain. “I wish you could see it. You’d be mighty proud.”
“You are my eyes as much as I am your legs,” the wheelwright reminded his friend. “I have a clear picture of the scene in my imagination. But tell me what you see.”
As Méaraigh the blacksmith began his poetic description of the war-cart, Máel Máedóc closed his eyes and tried to shut out all that was being said. He had a difficult decision to make and these two crafts-men were distracting him from his thoughts.
The old Druid sincerely wished he had not sanctioned the building of these new chariots at the last meeting of the Council of Chieftains.
At the opening of the meeting, the gathering of advisers, counselors and elders had expressed unprecedented gratitude to their young war-leader for his role in making a treaty with the Danaans. As a sign of their respect the council had conferred upon him a cap of bright gold to wear with honor and granted him the title of Finn, the Bright-Headed One. Then the leaders of the Fian, the warrior bands who roamed the countryside outside the protection and influence of the king, declared their allegiance to him. They named him Eber Finn of the Fianna and promised he would hold the title for life whether he remained King of the Southern Gaedhals or not.
With such an open show of support young Eber had confidently argued that to arm for war was a necessity his people could not afford to neglect. He called for the building of a fleet of war-carts and easily won over the majority of elders to his cause. They all remembered the Battle of Sliabh Mis and believed that the Danaan treaty had to be guarded with weapons that could not be challenged by a people who seemed impervious to swords and arrows.
Máel Máedóc had not stood up then to voice his concerns, having no good reason for his misgivings. It was only his intuition which led him to question the wisdom of building these chariots, for he knew no lang ever equipped his warriors unless he meant them to fight.
The Druid was suddenly woken from his meditations by the sound of yelling and shouts of delight. He lifted his steely blue eyes and drew back his cowl to watch the young king put his war-cart through its paces.
Even though he suspected Eber’s motives, he had to admit the king was gifted at the storyteller’s art. His words at the council had stirred the chieftains, and by the last evening of the gathering they were all calling for chariots like as many dogs baying at the moon. And the king had granted their demands after a short consideration, as if he were bowing to popular acclaim.
“He’s a fine charioteer,” Méaraigh observed once more, his voice full of admiration as Eber charged ecstatically around the oat field in his war-cart like a child chasing dandelion feathers on the breeze.
“He’s a clever man,” Máel Máedóc countered, and the blacksmith frowned.
The Druid lifted his eyebrows so that deep ruts formed across his brow, and reminded himself to keep his opinions to himself. He knew that if he spoke out about his fears it would mean denouncing Eber to his kinfolk. And tradition dictated that the denunciation of a king must be in the form of a special poem addressed to everyone of importance in the king’s household. Such a verse had to be specifically composed to ridicule the recipient. It was known as a satire.
Kings, queens and war-leaders all through the generations had been kept in check by the power of poetry. But a satire was not something to be undertaken lightly. Máel Máedóc quickly determined to try to reason with Eber just one more time.
If the king refused to see sense, then and only then would he create a satire to shake the chieftains and the elders from their complacency. Eber did not mean to use his weaponry to defend his people, he meant to use it to go to war.
“There has been too much war already,” the Druid told himself under his breath.
But his voice was loud enough for both the black-smith and the wheelwright to hear him. The pair of them coughed uncomfortably but the Druid didn’t notice. He was rattling through his mind, searching for a way out of this dilemma that would preserve King Eber’s dignity and diminish the threat of war. Deep in his heart Máel Máedóc knew Eber would easily win any debate in the Council of Chieftains. The king had gained their ears with flattery and fine deeds. And there were not enough Brehon judges among the Gaedhal folk to enforce a judgment by consensus of the Great Council of Druidry. Because warriors were given priority, only a dozen trained Druids had set sail from Iber with the invasion force. Originally it had been proposed that more would set out once the new land was firmly held, but only a handful had made the journey since the treaty was agreed upon.
Máel Máedóc knew Amergin the Bard would not support any criticism of his brother Eber, and as the most learned judge in the land he had the last word on any matters brought to trial. So there was nothing to be gained by bringing any charge of unjustified war-making against Eber. It would simply be dismissed out of hand.
The old counselor briefly considered trying to win over each chieftain in turn, but there was no time for protracted negotiations. Eber’s war plans were far advanced. Twenty war-carts had been delivered. The harvest would soon be in, and the warriors would be freed from all other work.
“I would speak with our king alone,” the old man stated out loud.
“You’ll have your chance in a moment,” the black-smith replied. “Eber Finn has turned his chariot around.”
Máel Máedóc shaded his eyes from the sun and watched as Eber brought his war-cart back to where the three men were waiting for him. The chariot jumped at every uneven patch of ground. The king whooped with excitement and drove the horse on at a reckless pace.
The Druid tried to read the expressions on the faces of the smith and the wheelwright. But it was impossible to tell whether either man had any reservations about their king. Máel Máedóc wondered how they would respond to his satire. He didn’t want to make any enemies among the craftspeople. He would have to rely on their support if the chieftains decided to ignore him.
> As these thoughts and doubts filled the Druid’s head, Eber Finn drew his chariot into a tight circle. The mare frothed at the mouth, wild-eyed and sweaty. The oat field was torn in a great sweeping arc where the cart’s wheels ripped into the soil. Eber Finn pulled the chariot in dangerously close to the three observers, chewing up earth, grain and stalks. Then, with a few words of encouragement to his beloved mare, he brought the vehicle to a harness-jangling halt.
The wheels had no sooner stopped turning than the king leaped out from behind the reins, gasping with the thrill of the ride. He walked a few steps on unsteady feet then turned around to admire his new possession, to marvel at its craftsmanship. And to enjoy the powerful rush of excitement that still pumped hot blood through his veins.
Eber whistled through his teeth as he imagined the effect a hundred of these war-carts would have upon an enemy. Then he turned to the wheelwright and nodded with satisfaction.
“That is the finest chariot I have ever had the good fortune to drive,” the king enthused. “You are truly a master craftsman, Tuargain of the Skilled Hand. And I pass my compliments to those who work with you. You have some talented apprentices under your guidance.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Tuargain replied as he attempted a flattered bow, so overcome by the comment that he forgot the blacksmith was strapped into his harness and nearly lost his balance.
Méaraigh held on tight until his knuckles whitened. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was clearly affronted at such high praise for the chariot-maker without any mention of the ironwork that had gone into building the vehicle.
“Truly your reputation is well deserved,” the king added.
Méaraigh coughed. The veins on his thick neck stood out and his great round face began to redden with indignation. Then he reached down with one hand to move one of his withered legs in the harness. It was a simple enough gesture but in the abrupt movement there was a hint that the blacksmith was about to withdraw his labor from this project in protest.
Máel Máedóc held his breath, hoping the man would find the strength to resist Eber. He knew such a move would be inspired by pride and nothing less. But he didn’t care. Méaraigh and Tuargain were the only two people capable of constructing the warcarts. If one of them withdrew his participation, that would be an end to any threat of war.
The blacksmith drew a breath and opened his mouth to speak.
But Eber held up his hand to silence the man. He knew the value of flattery as well as he knew the damage any omission might do to his cause.
“The chariot harness is both a work of beauty and a sturdy companion I can trust. You are to be congratulated, Méaraigh. You’ve done a remarkable job with it. Surely you are the most renowned blacksmith in the whole island of Eirinn and xmequaled among the people of the Gaedhal.”
Méaraigh bowed his head in acceptance of this praise as he rested once again on his friend’s back.
“The Druids will sing songs about these war-carts, expounding on the fearsome appearance, the courage of their drivers, the skill of the makers and the swiftness of the conquest.”
“The conquest?” Máel Máedóc cut in with a gasp. “What conquest?”
Eber Finn turned to the Druid sharply and squinted. He had rightly expected some opposition from the old man. His kind were masters of words, music and law. They rarely condoned the practice of war.
“What do you think of this chariot, Máel Máedóc?” the king demanded before the Druid could repeat his question. “Have I not spoken the truth? Is it not magnificent?”
The old Druid smiled when he realized the trap Eber had set for him. If he spoke out against this scheme now he risked offending both Méaraigh the blacksmith and Tuargain the chariot-builder.
“I have never seen the likes of such a war-cart,” Máel Máedóc nodded. “Truly there will be songs sung about this first chariot and the deeds performed in it. I am certain all folk will remember the glorious battles fought in its name.”
There was something in his tone that caught the two craftsmen by surprise. Both men frowned, catching the hint of a deeper message in the Druid’s words.
“In the generations to come all the people of the Gaedhal will tell the tale of King Eber’s new warcart,” Máel Máedóc went on, realizing he had their full attention. “The Bards will speak of the destruction which spread under its wheels fashioned of strong iron-bound oak. With honor they will list the enemies who fled before it on the battlefield. With respect they will recite the names of the brave fallen who perished in battles yet to come.”
The craftsmen both showed a measure of unease as they considered these words.
“There will be much joy and also weeping over this weapon, the first of many to be made,” Máel Máedóc concluded. “And above all the folk of future generations will remember the names Tuargain and Méaraigh, the craftsmen who constructed Eber’s chariot. You will be known as the two men without whom no battles could have been contemplated.”
The king turned his lips up in a strained smile. There was a hint of admiration for the old Druid’s wordcraft in the gesture. But Eber wasn’t about to let such a biting criticism go unchecked. The king turned slowly to his adviser and his smile deepened.
“Do you have an objection to the building of these chariots?” he demanded gently, his soft, firm voice indicating that he wouldn’t tolerate dissension. “Why didn’t you speak up at the Council of Chieftains when you had the chance?”
“I had no pressing reservations at that time,” Máel Máedóc replied, mirroring the king’s tone.
“And now?”
The old Druid glanced toward the two waiting craftsmen, then caught Eber’s gaze. The king immediately understood his counselor’s silent suggestion that this was a matter best discussed in private.
Eber nodded. Then with smooth confidence he took Tuargain by the shoulder and put his arm about Méaraigh the blacksmith. “You’ve both done very well,” he told them with a laugh. “So I wish to gift you each with a cow chosen by my husbandman from the royal herd. You shall each have a fine healthy beast recently arrived from our homeland. They are strong animals and will bear many offspring.”
Both men hummed in appreciation and took Eber by the hand in gratitude. A cow was of immeasurable value as a source of milk, and animals from the royal herd were much prized as breeding stock. This was a gift which carried great honor that would pass down the generations with each new calf.
“Go now to the house of my husbandman. He has your beasts waiting to be delivered into your hands.”
The craftsmen thanked the king together and then Tuargain, guided by the blacksmith’s keen eyes, set off for Dun Gur. They traveled with surprising speed considering one was blind and the other lame, and it wasn’t long before they had disappeared around the edge of the hill on their way to the fortress.
Eber waited a few moments after the blacksmith and the wheelwright had gone, then turned with fire in his eyes to face his counselor.
“How dare you?” the king bellowed. Then, realizing his voice was too loud, he lowered it to a hoarse whisper before going on, but the anger in it had not diminished. “What makes you think you can criticize me in front of two trusted servants?”
“Tuargain and Méaraigh are not servants indentured to you by debt,” Máel Máedóc reminded his lord. “They are freemen and Masters of the Crafts. They owe allegiance to their trades, not to you.”
“I am King of the Southern Gaedhals!”
“You rule at the whim of the chieftains. The council may replace you as war-leader at any time if you step beyond the bounds of your office. You are not above reproach.”
“Why are you speaking out in this manner?” the king hissed.
“I cannot see the sense in arming the young warriors any further.”
“We must make ready to defend ourselves.”
“The Danaans are not preparing for war.”
“How do you know?” Eber asked, his voice wavering.
“I have spoken with Fineen the Healer,” Máel Máedóc told him. “He is a Danaan Druid who has been instructing me in their laws.”
“You can’t be certain this Fineen is telling the truth,” the king countered.
Máel Máedóc sighed. It would be a waste of breath to remind Eber that the word of a Druid could always be trusted. The king would simply reply that the word of a Danaan could never under any circumstances be relied upon. So the old counselor decided to tackle the argument from a different direction. Exercising the mental agility for which he was renowned, he instantly changed his approach.
“The younger warriors have been behaving very badly of late,” he stated. “A Fir-Bolg fisherman went missing on the western coast of their country a week ago. There were many footprints in the sand and his boat was found burned on the beach.”
“Who’s to say it was the Fian bands who were responsible?”
“Fir-Bolg folk do not need to steal fish to feed their families,” the counselor pointed out. “The Fian, on the other hand, are forced to fend for themselves. They often make do on short rations. If they were hungry enough and disgruntled enough, there’s no telling what they might do. It would only take a few to influence their comrades.”
“It is a tradition among our people that the Fianna receive only token aid from their king or chieftain. Once they graduate into their inheritances and their responsibilities they are welcomed into the clan and can share the bounty of the people. How can anyone without a broad experience of the world take part in councils and the decision-making of their kinfolk?”
“That was true,” the Druid conceded. “In the days when our folk dwelled in the lands of Iber the young warriors were sent out to fend for themselves. It meant they learned self-reliance and their youthful exuberance was directed at each other, not at their kinfolk. It was appropriate that after a period among the Fian a warrior was considered trustworthy and well trained.”
“It is essential the young warriors learn for themselves,” Eber insisted. “It’s a time-honored tradition. Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance, is the old saying. Never grant responsibility in the clanhold to a warrior who hasn’t proved they are capable of restraint. Restraint can only be learned through discipline and hardship. The value of life can only be appreciated when one has been close to death. It teaches them to value the hard work of their ancestors so they do not squander the inheritance they receive from their family. And it encourages them to pass on a healthy, secure legacy to their own children.”